Albo P Fossa—October 27, 2021
September sneaked past.
I had to remind my wristwatch: no, September doesn’t have 31 days, October 1 comes sooner. To find the stem’s sweet spot for the day—not the time—is an ordeal five times a year.
Tourists and hummingbirds fled. Junior tree’s green leaves faded to orange. Some have fallen. Fans went to the garage: on cue, a freeze in October’s chilled breeze. Longer sleeves bloated the laundry bag. Signs.
Late October brought a check for a closed bank account: interest earned, a nickel. “EXACTLY *********0 DOLLARS AND 05 CENTS”. It cost the bank fifty-eight cents to mail the check. We got their money’s worth.
They’ll spend another fifty-eight cents to mail the final monthly statement under separate cover. That’s a buck sixteen for the nickel.
Now consider superficial collateral pennies spent for the nickel beyond the $1.16:
“We’re sorry you have decided to close your account…,” they wrote. Go figger.
Ah well…that’s entertainment. October sneaks past.
Time to carve a pumpkin for Halloween. Its guts are good for trash. That’s about all, if you ask me—like other orange gushy things such as sweet potatoes, yams, and stewed carrots (and while we’re at it, cantaloupe and butterfly squash. And beets might as well be orange, as should Pepto Bismol.)
After Halloween, Dia de los Muertos, which is called “Dia” even though it lasts tres dias. In Michoacán, Mexico, they celebrate their deceased ancestors’ tres dias with the arrival of hordes of Monarchs who will winter there.
Then we burst into the mania of year-end shopping season. Faux trees and sparkly lights are already out, and soon, ♪ Sugar Plum Fairies ♪ on TV. Later in the month, two—not just one—watch stem fiddlings: one for the hour back and one for the day forward.
Soon, November will sneak past.